


Heartbeats

by almostclover



Category: Real Person Fiction, The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 16,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29248656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostclover/pseuds/almostclover
Summary: They were it for each other, but it wasn't as simple as that.
Relationships: Elena Gilbert/Damon Salvatore, Nina Dobrev/Ian Somerhalder
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: This is a Nian story. Names have been omitted for obvious reasons. I have taken creative liberties with this love story and while there are definitely elements of reality embedded within, the majority of this story is completely fictional. As such, happy reading! Review if you please!

—

Chapter 1: 

Him:

It didn’t turn out at all like I had hoped. When I mentioned forever for the first time, I had done it with the utmost care and devotion. “You’re it for me,” I’d said, but the dumbfounded look on her face told me she couldn’t reconcile my feelings with her own. 

We were sitting on a park bench in the French Quarter at the time, soaking in the coolness of the evening air over beignets. When we first met and she found out I was from Louisiana, she made me promise to take her on a tour one day. I’d grinned her way and assured her I would, and when I brought it up again three years later she had forgotten all about it. I’m not one to go back on promises, though, and that one, flippant as it was at the time, was one I intended to keep from day one. 

Our very destination, then, was a bit of destiny, and maybe you could say I was caught up in the nostalgia of it all. No matter the reason, though, the words I’d said were not uttered in a frenzy of emotion, they had been sitting on my chest since the first time we locked eyes. 

Of course, her lack of response deadened the light mood of the evening and sent me reeling through past events. Up until that moment, we’d been on the exact same page, line by line and word for word. I knew how she felt for me and vice versa. Our relationship was built on honesty from the beginning. It had become one of my favorite things, the easiness of not having to wonder where we stood. 

But then.

I sorted through responses in my brain like a dusty warehouse trying to find one to clear the air. Contemplating apologizes, excuses, jokes, and explanations, I ultimately chose to say nothing at all for risk of making it worse. Unlikely, but not impossible. We finished our snacks in silence, staring blankly at some street performer a few feet away to avoid the tension of the moment. 

I stole a few glances her way, mostly just to make sure I wasn’t completely mistaken. But the furrow in her brow and shallow set of her eyes told me all I needed to know. She was thinking just the same as me. Trying to find words to reconcile. I prayed she would find them and she did.

“It’s getting late. We should probably head back for the night.”

It was barely 7:30 and we hadn’t even had dinner, but I didn’t argue. Didn’t so much as lift a finger in her direction. 

“You’re right.” 

~*~

Once we found ourselves back in the hotel room, the thick silence fell into casual conversation about nothing in particular, a joint attempt at slicing through the awkward tension. 

“Are you hungry?” I’d asked. And when she replied she could eat, I ordered Italian from the room service menu and excused myself to the bathroom to cancel our dinner reservations. I had planned to surprise her with one of my favorite restaurants in all of New Orleans, but I wasn’t mourning that so much as the 10 foot chasm now separating us. 

Even so, she wouldn’t let me stay down for long. 

“Italian?” She squealed when she answered the door, already changed into an oversized sweatshirt for the evening. “Gah, you think of everything!” 

I was caught off guard as she threw her arms around my shoulders, pulling me close for a hug and a quick peck on the lips. 

Dinner had us reminiscing about my childhood in the deep south, laughing over cheesecake and looking out over the city as it came to life. 

“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s a special place.” We were sitting on the bed with the balcony door propped open to let the low jazz notes seep into the room when she broke the easy silence. I paused for only a moment before I lost all resolve and glanced her way, her eyes betraying everything she wanted. Everything she would soon get.

I’d never been able to deny her, not even in a moment already cracked with unspoken thoughts. When she straddled my waist and began laying kisses along the column of my neck, I wrapped my arms around her and didn’t let go until the light of the morning danced in her eyes. 

Why would I waste time wondering about the future when you’re in my arms right now? 

I told myself all was right in the world, enchanting myself with all of the excuses for her strange reaction all the while knowing it was only a matter of time.

Her:

I was under no impression that he wasn’t entirely serious about me. To be such a vibrant, carefree, comical spirit, one look in his eyes was all it took for me to understand. In those eyes, I saw passion and devotion that terrified me, but dared me to fall. 

So I did. Over and over again. Most people can name a single moment in time where they fall in love, but that was never the case with us. If I fell once, I fell a hundred times, each time more so than the last.

We’d agreed to keep it quiet to make things easier, deeming it in our best interest to keep things between us to keep public attention at bay. But that was easier said than done.

It was written all over my face in every news reel and interview I replayed of the two of us. Undeniable. Intense. Epic. 

And always so so sudden. 

We never talked about the future and when it inevitably came up in conversation, we kept it lighthearted and dreamy, never lingering among the possibilities for very long. That was always fine by me. 

I’d known for a few months that something had changed in him when it came to this philosophy of life he had so diligently taught me. I found myself ignoring it because I didn’t know what else to do. 

On his 35th birthday, after the party had died down and the crowd left our apartment in Atlanta, I asked him what he would wish for if he could have anything in the whole world.

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say. Perhaps fame or fortune, though he had already been endowed with his fair share of both in his short lifetime. Maybe peace on earth or something heroic.

The look he gave me told me he had already given it more thought than I knew and I swallowed as he asked me if he could think about it a while.

By the time we got cleaned up and settled in for the evening, I forgot I’d even asked him a question at all, but as he slipped between the sheets behind me, he granted me his answer.

“I want a family.” He breathed it out into the night air so softly I almost missed it. And then, when I didn’t immediately reply, he offered some clarification. “Earlier you asked me what I would wish for if I could have anything and I’ve made up my mind. I want a family and I want it with you.”

As his arms enveloped me, the tears began to betray me, slipping from my eyes in a flood of emotion I’d been holding back for months. It didn’t come as a surprise, not really. I could see it in him every time he locked eyes with a baby across the room, every time he slipped and spoke of forever.

Misreading my emotion, he turned me in his arms and pulled me toward him until our lips locked in a kiss that tasted like salt. “Marry me.” He’d uttered when we finally broke away, and in the dim light of the dark room he searches my face earnestly for the answer I have yet to give. When it’s clear I must say something, raw honesty falls from my lips.

“I don’t know.”

The media started reporting our break up the very next day and rumors began to fly. How they got their information, I’ll never know, but they got most of the story right. He wanted to settle down and I wasn’t ready, and that was a seismic shift we evidently couldn’t reconcile. What they don’t know, though, is that I probably would’ve said yes had I not looked into his eyes and seen eternity staring back at me.


	2. Chapter 2

Him…

Rejection is never a walk in the park, but it hurts the most when it’s unexpected. 

I overreacted. In my pain, I couldn’t comprehend a world where there was any gray area for us. So instead of giving her time to explain her hesitancy toward my proposal, I shot out of the bed, throwing my clothes in a suitcase in a frenzy while she watched wide-eyed, face still damp with tears.   
It was tangible, the feeling of two hearts breaking at the same time. And in my frantic madness, I didn’t think about what I was actually doing. The mind has a way of playing tricks on the soul in moments of extreme emotion, and, over the course of the next few months, lying awake at night to watch the instant replay of our breakup, it didn’t take long for me to recognize my mistake. 

Retaliation is a basic instinct and it took over within me as a response to her rejection, sending every other rational component of my being into autopilot. She hurt you, so hurt her back, it whispered. And at the time, it seemed like a good idea. I remember two things distinctly before latching the door on my way out of the apartment that night. The first is how she followed me into the living room, overtaken by a fresh round of tears, arms wrapped around her slight frame clothed only in an oversized t-shirt even though it was the beginning of December. I didn’t dare look her in the eyes, knowing I would find within them some excuse to stay. Instead, I reached for the door, stepping across the threshold and hearing a weak “But…” call out behind me.

The second thing I remember is my response.

A sinister smile swept across my face and I shut the door.

~*~

Coming face to face with your own mortality has its way of rearranging your priorities. Young, disillusioned me thought that I had an infinite amount of time to sort out the trajectory my life and so I put it off like a term paper. I was uninhibited enough to throw myself at my dreams without so much as a Plan B and maybe that’s why it all worked out. I landed the roles and cashed in on them, surrounding myself with pretty girls and the good life. 

When we first met, she intrigued me. I had grown accustomed to being attracted to starlets, but something about her was different. She didn’t fall at my feet like the other girls; she looked me square in the eye. When I approached her at a casting party with the intent of wiling her with my charms, she was quick to react. Direct and matter-of-fact. 

“This might be a game for you,” she practically sang, “but I’m no prize to be won. I’m here to start a career and I’m not interested in all of the drama that comes with it.” Then she flashed me her sweet smile, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and sauntered off completely unbothered.

I was a goner from that point forward.

That stupid scene played out in my head on repeat as I checked myself into a hotel down the street from the apartment and downed half the mini bar. I told myself it wasn’t inevitable, that there was no earthly reason for us to be doomed from day one, but as I caught my reflection in the amber ripples of bourbon, my resentment and self-loathing subsided just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the truth. 

It was never her commitment and undying love that caused you to fall, my mind whispered into the stale midnight air. You love her most when she doesn’t love you at all.

Her…

The first few weeks were numbing. Lonely.

But I was under no impression that when he left, he would be walking out forever. Ironic because “forever” with him sounded so eminent and foreboding at the time when it didn’t take long to realize that just the opposite was true.

I broke down and called him after about a week. When he answered the phone on the second ring, I was taken aback. I had expected the soothing comfort of his practiced voicemail, and it took me a few moments to realize he was actually on the other end of the line. He offered no greeting, waiting silently for whatever message I had to offer.

“Hi, um…” I stumbled over my words, unsure of how to explain myself. “I miss you and I just wanted to call and apologize for the other night. I know I hurt you and we were both upset, but surely we can work something out.” 

After a long pause, his voice cracked on the other end. “Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”

I’ve never been one for ultimatums and his question paralyzed me. “Well…” My voice trailed off, terrified to speak and terrified to stay silent for a moment longer. “I don’t really know. I love you and I want to be with you and I want more than anything to work this out, but I need…”

The dial tone on the other end of the line startled me out of my monologue, and it took longer than it should have for me to realize he hung up the phone. 

~*~

When he moved on, I knew better than to assume it was to make me jealous. He wasn’t some lovesick teenager. He was a grown man capable of making decisions on his own, capable of falling in love with more than just me. No, he gave me a chance at wholehearted devotion and I gave it up in fear of such a weighty commitment; I’m the child.

I’ve heard it said that the entertainment industry doesn’t care about your personal life, but I know better. In reality, the entertainment industry only cares about your personal life when they can capitalize on it, using it to feed corporate greed and relevance, taking the most precious intimate details of your life and using them to claw their way to the top. 

And here we were, two hurting people in the midst of a whirlwind of cameras and Q&As demanding answers like they could ever hope to understand. We had an unspoken agreement to stay silent in such situations and while that kept some attention at bay, it only fueled the rumor mill and set the tabloids searching deeper into our past lives and social media profiles for answers they would not find.

In the midst of it all, life marched on and it was business as usual in every painfully normal way. 

When we kissed on set, it tasted like memories and it never failed to set the butterflies to dancing in my belly, even under the heat of the camera and the methodical flow of technicality. I was ashamed of it for the longest time, shuffling off the set as soon as the director yelled “Cut!” to get over myself. That was all good and fine until I dared catch his gaze one day after a particularly long and amorous scene. I was expecting, hoping really, to find a dull indifference that would shock me back to my senses. But for a moment, his eyes flashed with longing and I felt like I had just been burned.

The slip of paper acknowledging the end of my contract landed on my producer’s desk the very next day. I’d contemplated signing it for a long time, but I never worked up the courage to do it. Until I saw the wild hint of need in his eyes and realized what a dangerous path we were on, blurring the lines between reality and fantasy in some sort of twisted psychodrama. It had to end before it took us both under.

And after six beautiful seasons, it did.


	3. Chapter 3

Him…

I had almost forgotten about her. In the utter bliss of my whirlwind engagement and marriage, she had finally taken a backseat in my thoughts and feelings, but I’d never gotten around to actually letting her out of the car.

I’m happy, really and truly happy. But I’m also restless in the strangest way. When she arrives back on set to film the finale, I am overwhelmed by the magnitude of it. We worked side by side for six years and I took every single day for granted. When she left, I told myself it was for the better. We could both move on and gain the closure we deserved. It didn’t take long for our show to become my show, for me to find a face that didn’t shutter at the challenge of forever.

Her kiss is ice, but no one yells cut. It’s like they know better than to capitalize on our tattered relationship anymore. It’s ironic actually, our characters get their happily ever after and our own death sentence is signed. Our on-screen reunion the real-life final goodbye. 

“Invite her out to dinner,” my wife croons when we finally leave the set that night. I wish I could trust her motives as pure, but I know better. The tabloids will be itching to dissect the on set drama tomorrow and she wants to let everyone know we’re chummy. Except we aren’t. Not by a long shot.

I call her anyway. 

Her voice crackles on the other end of the line and I’m almost surprised she even answers. “Hey,” I offer, clearing my voice and deciding how best to phrase my request. I ask if she has dinner plans and clarify that my wife and I would love it if she joined us, and I leave it at that.

She doesn’t answer right away and her silence tells me all I need to know. She’s not fooled by the innocence of my offer. But then, just as quickly, she’s stammering on the other end of the phone. I can’t see her, but I know she’s running her fingers through her hair like she always does when she’s feeling hurt. “Yeah, sure. When and where?” 

I guess she needs the good PR as much as I do.

~*~

I always considered myself a good actor, even before I got paid to make a career out of it. And yet, over dinner I find myself enamored by the easy way she and my wife carry on like old friends while I fail to interject more than two words. They trade style secrets and gossip about the latest drama, laughing and carrying on without so much as a hint of insincerity. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were actually enjoying themselves. 

I know better. 

“I know how tense things are between you two,” my then fiancé warned several years back when we were preparing to film her very last scene. “It works for you on set, makes the characters more believable, I get it. But you better not so much as lay a finger on her off set, do you hear me?” Her tone was bitter, cruel. 

At the time, her words had made me angry, superficially baffled that she would even suggest such a thing when I knew deep down her warning wasn’t so far off base. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time found ourselves in a compromising situation. Even then, I knew somehow it wouldn’t be the last. 

That very night as the celebration was dying down and everyone was rounding out their goodbyes, I couldn’t help but linger. We were both covered in cake, a surprise the producers had planned after the final cut, and I knew I had no business sticking around, but around her I’ve never had any self-control.

“So what’s next?” I’d asked once we were alone in the parking lot, startling her out of an undoubtedly perfect inner monologue. I truly meant long-term. What goals and dreams was she off to tackle next?  
But when her eyes caught mine, I fell headfirst into their vulnerability. She didn’t answer my question, instead reaching out to capture my hand in the weakest of grasps. I didn’t let it go until she drifted off to sleep in my arms.

“Ian, come on, we’re taking a picture…” My wife’s voice jolts me out of the vivid memory and back into reality. We all pose as she aims the camera for the shot, and I happen to catch that same hint of vulnerability in her eyes. I don’t make the mistake of touching her again and I feel like I could be sick, but I smile anyway. I’m a good actor, after all.

Her…

The first time I dream of a baby with sapphire blue eyes, I drink too much at brunch the next day and wind up calling in to work for a self-care day. 

Their pregnancy announcement comes three weeks later and I sign off of social media for over a week so I don’t accidentally stumble upon it again. This is everything he ever wanted, I tell myself. And I want to be happy for them, but most of the time I count it as a win when I’m able to nonchalantly reply to people who ask if I’ve heard. 

These days, I challenge myself not to think about him for longer than ten seconds at a time. My therapist says that’s a healthy response. I can hear her now, “You can’t control the thoughts that pop into your head, but you can control your response to them.” I try very hard to do just that. Most of the time.

Except occasionally I let my mind drift to places where it has no business going—places where my most toxic thoughts betray me, whispering lies like he still loves you. And sometimes I let myself actually believe it. 

I pretend I haven’t noticed him lurking around all night, finding every excuse to stick around even though his fiancé undoubtedly warned him not to. 

“Where are we going?” The giddiness in my voice betrays the forbidden nature of our escapade. He’s pulling me along with reckless abandon, stopping only long enough to bring his finger to his lips as a signal for me to pipe down. The instant I recognize the door to his dressing room, my back is pushed up against it, his lips on my neck in the sweetest agony. I stifle a moan and drag my hands through his hair, pulling his lips to mine in a kiss that takes my breath away before it even begins. He tastes like cake and so do I, which draws us both back to our senses momentarily as we remember simultaneously that we are still covered in cake from head to toe from the after party. 

I worry for a moment that the spell is broken, but just like that he’s threading our fingers back together and drawing me toward his shower, undressing me slowly with the reverence of a priest and the lust of a playboy. He takes me hard and fast against the shower wall and then again softer and sweeter once we collapse on his sofa. Neither of us says another word to one another, but we come to the same conclusion either way. As bliss carries me toward sleep, I gather the faintest notion that I should be ashamed of myself, and yet, even as I’m gathering my clothes and slipping out of the room at the break of dawn, I can’t bring myself to actually feel it. I still don’t.

When I relive this night against my better judgment, it all comes flooding back, and if it was just a rush of sex and passion, I could push it away. But what I cannot get over is the lazy eyes and intoxicating smile he sent my way as I pulled the door closed behind me that day, a silent goodbye with a promise. I am nearly positive it is just my pathetic imagination playing tricks on me, but the way I choose to remember it haunts me of forever.


	4. Chapter 4

Him…

I was naive enough to think the baby would fix everything… her snide remarks, her extended getaways, the fact that she had taken up residence in the guest room. But then the baby is born and I might as well be in Australia for the amount of time I’m allowed to invest in her life. Sure, there are moments where everything feels right, but those are fleeting. 

“I’ve hired a nanny,” she tells me one day, casually like I probably don’t care anyway. “She seems nice enough. Good references. Clean background. You and I both need to get back to our careers, so she will make sure the baby is well taken care of in the meantime.” 

She speaks as if the matter is settled, as if our child’s fate is as comparable an inconvenience as a flat tire. I’d sooner give up my entire career than have my child raised by a stranger, but I don’t argue. “Thanks for taking care of that.” 

~*~

When I find out she’s cheating, it’s almost a relief. Better that she fall for someone else than just get tired of me. I find out from her publicist of all people, a jabbery little spitfire named Maria whose sole advantage in this life is knowing all of the gossip about everyone in her inner circle so she has leverage. They had had a fight, evidently. Even then I wasn’t privy to the nitty gritty details of my wife’s daily life. Maria stormed over lo the house to either make amends or quit for the fifteenth time and I answered the door. 

“Where is she?” No niceties, no small talk. Fine with me. “Out for brunch with her boyfriend?”

For a split second, I thought she was joking, not because it was all that unbelievable but because she was just that type of person. When her face held its severity, though, I knew she was serious. Probably because she was still ridiculously upset, I had convinced Maria to sit down for a cup of coffee and spill all the details. 

It had been going on for at least 18 months. While she was pregnant? He was some sort of “wannabe hippie” who worked at a surf shop in Santa Monica. Not at all like myself or her first husband? He was a Catholic turned Hindu. Was that why she had taken to eastern art and culture? They did brunch every Thursday morning at a local dive down the street. Maria made sure to tell me that she had booked the reservations. 

“He makes her feel free…” Enough.

“If she’s so happy, why hasn’t she left me? Why hang on to the fragments of our relationship when could have something so much better?”

Maria bites her lip, suddenly and decidedly silent in a conversation she has otherwise intentionally dominated. 

“Listen, you’re officially toast when she finds out you spilled your guts anyway. You might as well tell me.” It seems to level with her.

“She still likes the idea of you. And she certainly doesn’t want to share with you-know-who.”

Her…

He shows up at the doorstep with a suitcase and a baby and the only thing I know to do is invite him inside. He looks weathered like he fought one too many battles today and didn’t manage to win a single one. I opt not to ask any questions for that very reason, respecting the fact that I gave up that right long ago. 

“Sorry,” he utters after I offer him a glass of tea. “It didn’t occur to me that this place might be occupied. I just needed somewhere to go and ended up here. I can… I’ll just change the baby and be on my way.”

His entire universe is off balance and I wonder whether or not I should do my due diligence and try to right it again, but the open wound still brandishing its way across my heart tells me to stay guarded. It’s too big of a risk.

So I turn the light on for him in the bathroom and ask if I can get him something to eat. He doesn’t respond, but I make him a plate anyway, and when he emerges from the bathroom, he sinks into the kitchen chair and devours Atlanta’s best takeout like he hasn’t eaten all day. We don’t speak at first, so I busy myself by extracting the chubby toddler from his lap and cleaning the kitchen.

“Thank you.” He speaks. “It’s been a really long day and I know this probably has to be the strangest possible way you could have imagined spending your Saturday night, but I’m more grateful than you know.” His daughter babbles on my hip as if in agreement. 

When he doesn’t make a move to continue the conversation, I dare myself to look him square in the eye for the first time. “How long will you be in the city?” It’s a safer question to ask than “What happened to you, why haven’t you shaved today, and where is your wife?”

He doesn’t look up at me as he responds, swiping grains of rice with the tip of his fork. “I don’t know. Haven’t got that far yet.”

So it’s true. Buried in all the words he chose not to say. 

I just nod and offer him a slight smile, clearing his plate and loading it in the dishwasher. “Well it’s already 9 o’clock, so you might as well stay here for the night. The guest room is all set up and this place is technically half yours anyway.”

He meets my gaze for the first time all evening and in it I see nothing but deep sorrow. He doesn’t even put up a noble fight, just nods in affirmation. “Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

Him…

Why I chose Atlanta, I’ll never know. It’s less of a decision and more of an impulse. I guess I realize she could be there. After all, I am heading to the apartment that we bought together in what feels like a fever dream all those years ago. But I convince myself that chances are slim, and, if I’m being entirely honest with myself, I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

Regardless of the reasoning behind the trajectory of my travels, once I realize the apartment is very much occupied, I have every intention of leaving in the morning, packing my things, waking the baby, and offering her my well wishes on the way out the door before the coffee is fully brewed. 

What I fail to anticipate is my own exhaustion and when I wake up at 10 a.m., I roll out of the bed in a panicked stupor. Reality only sets in when I hear two sets of giggles echoing from just outside the door, both unmistakable—one belonging to my child, the other to my ex-girlfriend. I allow myself to revel in it for a moment in spite of myself, having dreamed of this exact moment countless times and woken up to the dull reality that it will never happen.

I drag myself out of bed and shrug on a t-shirt and sweatpants before heading to retrieve my child. As if the sounds weren’t enough to set my heart in a frenzy, I am unprepared for the sight that awaits me in the living room. She is seated on the couch in a pair of leggings and an oversized sleep shirt, her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head. My daughter is bouncing up and down gleefully on her lap as she makes silly faces. We lock eyes and she sends me an easy smile, tucking a stray hair behind her ear and blushing boldly. I can honestly say that for all of the glitz and glamour I’ve been privy to in my short life, I have never seen a something more beautiful.

I decide then and there that for the sake of the preservation of my own sanity, I have to leave. Quickly.

“Daddy’s awake now, so we can finally have our breakfast.” I realize then that the table is set with a stack of muffins and coffee. It’d be rude to walk out now.

We fall into easy conversation about life over breakfast. She tells me about the new movie she’s working on and how she ironically ended up back in Atlanta for filming. I bore her with talk of non-profits and fundraising. We hopscotch around serious topics and run headlong in the opposite direction from anything that might trigger discussion about my current state of affairs. Still, it isn’t uncomfortable or awkward. She’s always had a way of making me feel exceedingly seen and accepted without all the psychobabble. 

“Hey look,” I offer once we reach a lull in conversation and the coffee has turned cold. “Thank you for your hospitality. I know this was a lot all at once and it was exactly what we needed.” I nod toward my daughter who is preoccupied with squishing bits of muffin between her fingers. “But we’ll be on our way now.” 

I should leave it at that—vague, noncommittal—but something in her eyes tells me its safe to share the truth. “I haven’t quite figured out where we’re going yet or what we’ll do when we get there. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your space, but it was the only place I knew to go where I could stay long-term.” I proceed to spill my guts about the cheating and the confrontation and the separation, words falling out of my mouth before I can censor them, and she just sits there, patiently listening like its her job. With a heavy sigh, I pull myself together before I completely lose it. “Anyway, cut the melodrama.” That pulls a smile from us both. “All of that to say I’m not sure where I’m going.”

“Then stay,” she shrugs, as if it’s the most trivial of dilemmas with the simplest of solutions. And so I do.

Her…

It is only a matter of time before we fall into an easy domesticated routine, cleaning up after one another and splitting bills. Nothing about our relationship has ever been platonic, and yet, somehow we make it work. I can’t help but wonder if it is as difficult for him as it is for me.

He doesn’t say as much, but I can tell the divorce is taking its toll. He never wanted to be this guy and he certainly never wanted to be this guy under the careful scrutiny of the public eye.

If we were together, I would be climbing onto his lap to give him a thorough scalp and shoulder massage. But, of course, we aren’t, so I just sit on what has become “my side” of the sofa and we watch the news in silence. I sneak a few glances his way because it’s a particularly uneventful evening and the television can’t hold my attention. He’s visibly carrying a massive amount of tension and stress that he won’t open up about, that he has no business opening up about with me. I’m up on my feet with a new idea before I can think it through in its entirety, sneaking up behind him with a kitchen chair and dropping my hands to his shoulders. 

He lets out a soft groan of surprise but is otherwise silent and compliant as I kneed his taunt muscles. Despite the fact that my fingers feel like they are on fire with each brush of his bare skin, I manage to keep up a steady, soothing rhythm. Words can’t express how much I’ve missed touching him. 

It takes a moment for me to realize he’s crying, a stream of silent tears soaking his cheeks as I massage away his tension. “Hey,” I whisper, subconsciously drawing him closer as one arm snakes around his neck and the other buries itself in his hair. “Deep breaths. Let it all out. You’re safe here.” 

I breathe him in on accident and I am immediately overwhelmed by the scent of his aftershave and the scratch of stubble against my cheek. As if on autopilot, my lips move to his skin of their own accord, pressing soft kisses along the column of his neck. I would probably stay like that forever if it weren’t for him startling me out of my haze with a heavy sigh. I feel a blush rise on my cheeks and move to extract myself from him. My mind is abuzz with apologizes, but none of them feel genuine, so I choose to bury my shame.

Only when he reaches up and threads our fingers together, pulling me back to him, do I realize its okay. “Stay,” he breathes out, still awash with tears. And so I do.


	6. Chapter 6

Him…

We don’t talk about what happened the other night. Not that we have to. A high school English teacher would have a heyday interpreting all of the hidden meaning. Rather than let my mind run wild with the possibilities, I force myself to accept the safest possible explanation. It was just comfort. 

I know it’s a lie, of course, but it’s easier to accept than the truth. She and I are a history of erotic experiences, and yet, somehow, this feels like the closest we’ve ever been to one another. This level of emotional vulnerability is too much, even for us.

She must feel it too because we fall into a habit of not touching each other. No exceptions. 

It’s like we collectively decide that simply being chummy roommates is where we will draw the line. What she doesn’t realize is that no amount of distance is going to dissolve this rekindled flame. I am weak, broken even, have been ever since she ripped my heart out all those years ago. Life since us has been a mirage of little white lies I’ve told myself just to say sane.

If she only knew how very little it takes to open the floodgates of emotion I walled off when she said no to forever. Her hair in a towel. The melody of her singing off key to ‘90s pop as she folds laundry. Barging into my room overwhelmed in a fit of giggles to show me the latest viral video. Her insistence on running the hot tub in subzero temperatures.

It’s all too much and not nearly enough—these stolen moments. And at some point I decide they will have to do. Once upon a time, I thought forever with her was the only way I could ever be truly happy. Now, I realize that every single moment with her, for however long, whatever the terms, is the closest thing to paradise I will ever find.

Her…

I was unfortunately prepared to fall in love with him all over again, like I ever managed to get over him the first time around. When he showed up at my doorstep over a month ago with sad eyes and duffle bag, I pretty well knew how this would go. What I wasn’t prepared for was falling in love with his daughter.

One of the things that scared me most about forever with him was the fear of how inadequate I would be as the mother of his children. My confidence never wavered in his ability to be the very best of fathers, but in my dreams of the future, I always came up lacking. I’ve never been exceptionally maternal, even with my sister’s kids, and I couldn’t bear the thought of letting him down in that way. 

Yet somehow, with her, it’s natural. First, I find myself hesitantly nursing boo boos and stirring spaghetti-os, and next thing I know, I’m buying little purple jumpers and tucking her in at night with a kiss on her forehead. She falls asleep on my chest sometimes when she refuses to take a nap and I don’t have the heart to let her go.

~*~

“Nini,” I hear her bare feet smacking against the hardwood seconds before her arms wrap around my knees, pulling me into a bear hug as she presses her cheek against my thigh and beams up at me. They’ve been gone all day, off exploring Atlanta and undoubtedly spending too much money. The toddler has a sticky red grin on her face and her daddy is carrying a new stuffed animal to add to her collection. His smile holds the kind of pure hope I wish I could bottle up and save for a rainy day.

I swing her up onto my hip without so much as a second thought, laughing as she reaches out for her stuffed bear so she can show me how much she has her daddy wrapped around her little finger. He steps forward, presenting it to her as he wiggles its arms and legs, hiding his face behind it and morphing his voice to fit the character just to make her laugh. She reaches for the bear and hands it to me, eyes filled with joy. I don’t even have time to pay her a compliment before she’s got her arms wrapped around both of our necks, drawing us into a death grip of a group hug. 

We’re pressed up against one another in the hug I’ve been craving since we locked eyes the first night with no excuse to deny ourselves. His arms rest casually at the small of my back as my free hand wraps around his neck. I take three full deep breaths before I dare myself to drag my eyes to meet his, afraid of what I’ll find and somehow unable to deny myself any longer.

“Wuv you.” She coos into the space between us, oblivious to the palpable tension she’s created. 

I don’t say it out loud, but my thoughts form an automatic reply that is perfectly in sync with his verbal one. “I love you too, baby girl.” 

The only thought I can formulate is that I would give anything for this to be forever.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Perhaps it was the love in the air or maybe I just couldn't take it anymore... Seismic shifts in store. Read at your own risk :)

Him…

We sleep in on Saturdays, all three of us, moseying out of bed sometime around mid-morning. The little one watches cartoons on television while she and I throw together some sort of edible brunch. It’s these moments, when she’s scrambling around the kitchen in an oversized t-shirt, cursing under her breath while she licks pancake batter off of her fingers, that I find her most irresistible. 

Today, however, I’m the first one up. The apartment is quiet and I decide to get a head start on breakfast, flipping on the coffee maker and opening up the refrigerator to take stock of our options. 

It’s been a minute since either of us went to the grocery store, so I make the executive decision that we will make do with eggs and toast.

Cracking a few eggs into a skillet, I give them a swirl with the spatula and allow my thoughts to run wild. A month ago, I never would’ve hoped to be here living this life. It feels like a second chance, and yet, moments with her are so fragile. I don’t want to risk saying or doing the wrong thing at risk of shattering what we’ve haphazardly built.

Like the fact that I’m standing in the kitchen shirtless with an unruly bed head right now making her breakfast. I didn’t do it on purpose, but now I’m overthinking it. I run a hand through my hair self-consciously and turn back toward my room to throw on a shirt before she wakes up. You can never be too safe. 

Lost in thought, I collide with something full force, cursing under my breath. It’s only when I hear a soft giggle that I realize its her, jumping back toward the counter in an attempt to put some space between us. “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, already unbearably uncomfortable.

When I realize she’s still laughing, I relax a little bit, allowing a smirk to take over my face. “What’s so funny?”

“I was trying to sneak up on you,” she manages to reply before being enveloped in another fit of giggles. She walks closer to me and I tense up as our eyes lock. “You should have seen the look on your face.”

She reaches up and cups my cheeks and its the last thing I’m prepared for, my pulse suddenly ricocheting against my skin. “I forgot how fun it was to scare you. You are absolutely adorable when you’re terrified.”

“Good to know.” I swallow intently, never dropping her gaze. I am frozen in place, mesmerized by the raspiness of her morning voice and the feel of her fingertips against my skin. I think for a moment that I would be content to die right now. 

But then she’s stepping into my arms, drawing her face closer to mine, and I subconsciously decide I still have a little more life left in me.

When our lips touch, it isn’t anything like I’ve imagined it a hundred times over. It’s tentative, sweet, almost a little shy. I can feel the heat rising on my cheeks and I don’t understand why. We’ve done this hundreds… thousands of times. 

Only when her eyes fall closed do I allow myself to relax against her, sliding my tongue against the seam of her lips as I bury my fingers in her hair. 

Her…

When I kiss him, I don’t feel like I’m trying or pretending or anything except being. Before I’m even fully aware of what’s happening, I’m sighing into it, pressing myself impossibly closer to him. It’s the kind of kiss I would imagine a couple sharing after a near death experience, and after all this time of dancing around one another, it feels like pure relief. 

And then I remember myself. I remember that he’s not mine to scare or caress or kiss, not anymore, and I pull back immediately, hand flying to my lips like they’ve been burned. 

“I’m so sorry,” I breathe out in a panic. I fail to acknowledge the irony in repeating his very same words, turning away from him in shame. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Hey,” he reaches out for me, pulling me back against his chest in one fell swoop. “What’s wrong?”

The way he smooths the hair out of my eyes and draws my chin up to meet his gaze tells me this is different than all the times before. There’s nothing forbidden or rushed about the way he holds me. 

This time it’s him who pulls my lips up to meet his, and there is nothing shy about his response, as he opens his mouth immediately to draw my tongue against his with a toe-curling moan. He backs me into the nearest counter and lifts me up effortlessly, breaking this kiss to trail his lips down my neck as my legs curl automatically around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer to me. His hips begin to rock against mine as his lips find mine again, and while coherent thoughts are fleeting, I manage to register that I smell something burning.

“What’s that smell?” I pull back momentarily, wrinkling my nose as my breath evens out.

It takes his heavy-lidded eyes a moment to register what I’m saying and then he’s flying over to the stovetop, fanning a smoking skillet and dumping a cup of water on top of its contents as he curses under his breath. From my vantage point on the counter, I can’t help but shake my head as the giggle fit I had managed to squelch comes back with a vengeance. 

“I guess we’re ordering out for breakfast…” He wonders aloud as he dumps the charred eggs in the trashcan.

I couldn’t care less about breakfast.


	8. Chapter 8

Him…

“Come get in the hot tub with me.” She walks into the living room at 8:30 on a Tuesday night wearing nothing but a bombshell red string bikini and makes her request known immediately. 

The baby is sleeping and what little resolve I have left slips away as she looks down her eyelashes at me. 

The way we are together, the way we’ve been ever since our brunch kiss incident reminds me of the months of playful flirtation we indulged in when we first met. It’s intoxicating, and as much as I want to be with her, I don’t feel the need to rush the sweet torture of dancing circles around each other.

When I climb into the jacuzzi, she’s already settled into the foam, pouring herself a glass of red wine and looking out across the city skyline. The lights look dizzyingly beautiful from 25 stories in the sky, splayed out before us like our very own work of art to behold. 

Before I even get a chance to ask, she’s passing me a glass of my favorite bourbon and making a toast to new beginnings. As breathtaking as the cityscape is, I find it difficult to have eyes for anything but her. 

Unabashed joy wells up in me and splays itself across my face before I can register the need to suppress it. After all this time, with official divorce paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered, I still feel guilty for being happy. Someone who manages to make this big of a mess out of their life doesn’t deserve a second chance.

“How are you doing?” She asks, taking note of my silence and staring straight through to my soul, eyes filled with concern. It’s in that moment, as she brings her hand up to my cheek in the most soothing caress, that I realize she could probably answer that question better than anyone. Ever the perceptive and caring one, staring into her eyes is like a window to my own soul. Always has been.

When I realize she isn’t going to let me out of it, I down a shot of bourbon, pull my gaze from hers, and begin, stuttering over my words. “I made a mess of things,” I sigh, letting a bitter laugh suppress a wave of tears. I want to continue, to tell her about how my immaturity ruined everything, about how my wife’s cheating was almost a relief, the marriage and family I always wanted spontaneously combusting like an answered prayer—a rescue mission. Somehow, saying those things aloud, especially to her, feels wrong. Drawing my gaze back to hers, she lifts the corner of her lip in a soft smile that I can’t help but mirror.

In her eyes, I see empathy and warmth, gentle acceptance and welcoming. When she opens her mouth to speak, I hang on to her words like prophecy. “The biggest mistake anyone could ever make is saying no to forever with you.”

Her…

His emotions have always danced in his eyes like their very own Da Vinci code that only I can crack. My confession is ripe with double meaning, and yet, somehow I know he interpreted it exactly as it was meant, the pain he harbors momentarily easing from his expression.

Before I can react, before I can fully behold the beauty of him at peace, he’s pulling me onto his lap. I comply without protest, both of us letting out a collective gasp as skin meets skin for the first time in ages, lighting little fires across the expanse of our bodies as water swishes over the edge of the tub. 

His hands kneed my waist as his lips sear to mine, and I find myself burying my hands in the hair at the nape of his neck like a prayer. “I have to tell you a secret…” I whisper in his ear as his lips make their descent down the column of my neck.

“Hmmm…” his distracted response gives me all the confidence I need to continue, though as he begins to suck at the skin behind my ear, drawing my earlobe into his mouth, I gasp in his arms, losing my train of thought altogether. “You were saying?”

He pulls away from me long enough to smirk at my heaving chest before returning his attention to the knot at the back of my top, eyes glazing over once more. I lean in once more to kiss his jaw, whispering against it before I lose all control. “I’ve dreamed of this moment since you stormed out of this apartment that night.”

He stills against me, and for a moment I feel utterly frozen in place, angry with my own boldness. But then he’s drawing his index finger beneath my chin, pulling me up so we’re face to face again, and as soon as I meet his eyes, realize I have nothing to be afraid of. “Me too,” he breathes out, an admission that shakes me to the core and sends me into a fit of uncontrollable laughter that reverberates through him, as well.

I suppose I knew we would end up like this. Neither of us ever had an ounce of self-control and to be a pair of award-winning actors, we never were able to hide how we feel for one another. Either way, it doesn’t matter. In this moment, as I throw my head back in giddy elation, I free utterly complete.

Before I’ve had a chance to fully revel in it, he’s picking me up, my legs locking automatically around his midsection as he steps out of the jacuzzi. My giggles fade away as he steps through the threshold and into my room, pulling off my loose top and abandoning it in a pile on the floor. “I actually have a whole host of secrets I could share with you.”

His admittance sends my heart rate into a frenzy as I leave open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone. “Hmmmm…” I echo, and suddenly he has me pinned beneath him on the bed, hands running across my chest with expertise. I want to tell him that I have my fair share of secrets to tell, as well, but as his mouth follows the path of his hands, we collectively lose all sense of time and space. 

“Make love to me and never let me go…” I whisper into the dark, nudging his trunks down with my toes. My head falls to the side as his fingers trace a lightening path across my belly and slide beneath the waistband of my bottoms. When he crawls back up my body and buries his hands in my hair, we become one, and as our lips meet again, they uncover our secrets all on their own.


	9. Chapter 9

Him…

I made a broad spectacle out of seducing her back in the day. She was young, naive, and what she lacked in confidence, she made up for in gumption. Even at the very first table read, the fire in her eyes set me ablaze. 

“I’m not here to get involved with my co-stars.” She blew me off immediately when I approached her the first time to formally introduce myself, shouldering past me like I was the paparazzi. 

“It’s going to be an awfully boring next few years, if that’s the case. I didn’t ask to hop in your bed. I just asked if you wanted to go for coffee.”

At that, she stopped and smiled, and in that moment, my burning lust dissolved into something more like admiration. She wasn’t like other girls. This wasn’t a game of cat and mouse. She made her point and I challenged it. Instead of digging her heals in, she decided to make a new friend. 

My respect for her only grew as our friendship deepened and we became more comfortable around one another. We’d stay up into the wee hours of the morning mulling over our scripts together like lexiomaniacs, only to ignite in a prank war on set the very next day, taking advantage of each other’s sleep-deprived haze.

Somewhere in the exhilaration of it all, I fell in love with her and I wasn’t even trying. 

~*~

The first (and the second and the third) time we kissed, it was for the camera, under the blinding lights and careful scrutiny of an entire crew of people who’s entire livelihood depended on our performance. Even then, with insurmountable pressure to keep it professional, mechanical, I found myself drawn in like an addict.

I find her in her dressing room after the final cut because I genuinely don’t know what else to do with myself. “Hey,” she offers, and I can tell by the way her breath hitches that she can feel it too. 

“Hey,” I smile her way before averting my gaze, suddenly a ball of nervous energy. I don’t know what to say to her. “I’m thinking about breaking up with my girlfriend.” Why that particular piece of information comes to mind, I don’t know, but I go with it, thankful that it comes out more nonchalant and suave than feels. 

“Oh?” She turns from her perch at the mirror where she’s carefully removing stage makeup to look me up and down. I’m walking closer to her before I can stop myself. 

Her hair is partially pinned on top of her head in some intricate style from the 19th century, and it’s more than a little disheveled from our heated makeout session. As she starts pulling pins out, I move to help her. “You don’t have to do that…” She wonders aloud, as I pull the first pin, but when our eyes meet in the mirror, I know she’s only being polite.

“Eh, you know what they say… you break, you buy.” She lets out a lighthearted giggle and I subconsciously make note to do everything in my power to make it happen again. 

We work together silently until the last of the pins are free from her hair and it flows freely around her shoulders. I run my fingers through it one last time for good measure, checking to make sure no stray clips remain. When my fingers reach her scalp, she relaxes against me, her eyes fluttering closed as I pull her back into my arms.

Before I can convince myself it’s a bad idea, my lips fall on the exposed column of her neck, kissing her absentmindedly as my hands continue their wandering. I am a man possessed, consumed by her. The little noises she makes only add fuel to the fire. 

Our fourth kiss is real, and it’s entirely different than all the ones before. I had thought kissing her on set was the epitome of perfection, but when she turns in my arms and launches herself at my lips, I realize I was entirely mistaken. I’ve been with many women in my lifetime, women who kiss with their lips and their bodies, their minds and their hearts, but her kiss is different. Even then, when she owes me nothing but skepticism and incredulity, her kiss is honest and open, a window to her very soul.

Her…

When I fell for him, I fell hopelessly. It was pathetic, embarrassing even. Everyone on set knew that I wasn’t interested in dating my co-stars, and here he was making an Olympic sport out of making me blush as often as possible. 

For a while, it only strengthens my resolve and I find myself determined to resist. He’s using you like all the other girls, I tell myself often. He likes the challenge and the chase. As soon as he wins you over, he won’t be interested anymore. 

But my gut tells me none of those things are true. And the tiniest of moments affirm it. The way he calls me when he’s up late thinking about something. The way he defends me to the tabloids. The way his hand brushes mine when we’re walking side by side.

He’s seeing someone casually until I haul off and kiss him one day in my dressing room because I physically can’t contain myself anymore, the tantalizing balance of banter and adoration finally enough to make me spiral out of control. 

From that point forward, something changes in both of us, and I can’t quite put my finger on what it is for the longest time. 

We’re at a watch party for the season one finale when he pulls me toward him at the bar. I tense before relaxing against him, realizing we can use the alcohol as an excuse to get a little loose and handsy. We’re together but no one knows yet, and that fact alone is more intoxicating than the strongest liquor.

“What are you thinking about?” He breathes against the shell of my ear, and we spend the rest of the night torturing each other with hushed whispers and hidden touches, falling out the door together and catching a cab back to his place once the party dies down.

He makes love to me for the first time (and the second and the third) the next morning once we’ve sobered up enough to commit each sensation to memory. It’s slow and sweet, languid and strikingly erotic, a static spark arching between our bodies for days on end afterward. 

Ten years later, as I lie curled against him at our apartment in Atlanta, that thing that changed in both of us becomes clear as day. It’s a fierce devotion, a stubborn fire that lingers long after it’s served its purpose, the kind of flame that flickers but never dies.


	10. Chapter 10

Him…

If loving her last time was sunshine, it’s a watercolor sunrise this time around. Pastels that bleed across the entire sky and crisp air that takes your breath away, shouting of new beginnings and promises. 

Most of the time.

“You bought what?” The lilt in her voice tells me she is holding back a fit of rage. 

It’s Friday afternoon and we’ve both had a long week, her finishing the final cuts of the series she’s been working on for the past six months and me closing on a house as a surprise next step for our family. Life in the cocoon of this apartment has been indescribably perfect, but we are already busting at the seams.

Taking a deep breath, I step toward her. “A house.” I move to pull her into my embrace, but she evades me, slapping me on the arm playfully as she goes.

“Don’t even play around about something like that…” Her voice trails off as she returns her attention to her reflection in the bathroom mirror, touching up her makeup from a long day at work. We have a dinner reservation in a couple hours and I was going to break the news while we were out, but I couldn’t wait another second. 

“I’m being serious, babe.” It’s only then that she turns to face me fully, face wrought with a concern I wasn’t expecting. 

“No…” She calls my bluff with her eyes.

I can’t, for the life of me, remember why I expected her to be excited. She’s always had a fiery anger about her, the kind that quakes through her whole body, and once she’s worked up, there’s no talking her down. I try anyway.

“Well now that you’re wrapping up on set and we don’t have any more ties to Atlanta, I figured we could sell this place and try something new. We’re out of room here and I found the perfect place on the coast just north of L.A. I bought it because it reminds me so much of you. It can be our fresh start.”

She mulls over my words like they’re some kind of delicious poison. She wants to take me at my word, I can tell, but she doesn’t trust herself to do it. As her hand rises to tousle her hair, I know I’m done for.

“You didn’t think to involve me?!” Her words are like ice. “You don’t have to, of course, but I thought that’s where this was headed. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Shouldering past me into the kitchen, she grabs a glass and pours herself a shot of my fancy bourbon, leaving me no choice but to stare at her in anticipation of her next move. She normally hates the stuff, but the way she downs the shot, I know she’s not in it for the taste. 

“What is this to you?” She demands, gesturing to me as she slams her empty glass back on the counter. “All those years ago, back when we broke each other’s hearts, it was because of something stupid like this. You wanted forever and I didn’t think I was ready.”

She’s screaming now, scalding tears rippling down her cheeks as her words cut me like razorblades. “Now the tables have turned. I don’t want to be just another accessory in your life. I don’t want to come along for the ride. I’m done pretending this thing between us wasn’t inevitable.”

Her voice trails off with her tears and I don’t expect her to step into my arms, but I’m ready for her when she does. 

“You’re it for me.” She echoes back the words I said to her on a park bench in New Orleans all those years ago, staring into my eyes and daring me to remember. And suddenly, we’re no longer fighting about a house.

She pushes me backward toward the bedroom that has become ours and her hands are all over me, clutching at me with a passionate, possessive anger that is completely new. Her lips find mine as she straddles me on the bed, intent on showing me exactly what she means. 

“Together,” she heaves as she has her way with me. “From now on, we do everything together.”

Her…

It’s an easy intimacy—physical, emotional, spiritual—we’re on the same wavelength. And my favorite part is how messy it is, even at the start. We argue and we fight and at the end of the day, we don’t hold back. There are no mind games. I don’t psychoanalyze every conversation. I feel safe.

That’s the only reason my initial reaction isn’t terror when the pregnancy test comes back positive. 

I’ve never wanted to be a mom, never felt like I had any business being a mom, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is absolutely right.

When I finally work myself up to tell him, he stands there dumbfounded for several moments before he dissolves into a sobbing mess. And I follow suit because seeing him like this, so unbearably excited he can hardly contain himself, is simply too much. 

Once we’ve collapsed on the floor in each other’s arms, I pull him in close and take in the elation in his eyes.

“This is real,” I smile through my tears, cupping his face and placing feather light kisses along his cheekbones. “We’re going to be the family you always wanted.”

~*~

My belly grows quicker than I expect, and he’s obsessed with it, finding every excuse to rub it and kiss it and talk to it.

“I’m starting to get a little jealous, you know.” I laugh as he pats my tummy while we wait for the tech to come in for our ten week ultrasound. 

“Oh, come on…” He continues talking to my belly as his hand slips lower. “I think I give Mommy plenty of attention.”

My breath hitches in my throat, and as we lock eyes I can’t help but think I’m the luckiest woman on the face of the earth. 

When the ultrasound tech comes in, it’s obvious she recognizes us, but she does a very good job of pretending like nothing is out of the ordinary—like him and I here together like this isn’t a huge deal. It’s been so easy to keep everything quiet for the past few months, to revel in the simplicity of life together without all the complications that come with fame, but moments like this one are a stark reminder that it’s only a matter of time before we have to share our story with the world.

He holds my hand as the tech takes a seat, prepping the supplies and eventually dragging the wand over the small bump in my abdomen. She’s quiet as she works, and I immediately equate it with discomfort—the realization that she’s now privy to a scandalous secret only a handful of people know about. 

Little do I know, she has a scandalous secret all her own. As she takes snapshots of my womb, I can’t help but break the awkward silence.

“How is the heartbeat?” I ask, completely unprepared for her response.

“There are two.”


	11. Chapter 11

Him… 

The decision to go public with our relationship isn’t an easy one, but it’s necessary. We can’t hide in our little bubble forever, and considering we both have very public careers, it was only a matter of time before someone leaked the latest gossip anyway.

“I backed out of my contract today,” she casually observes as we pack up what’s left in the apartment in preparation for our move back to L.A.

“How’d it go?”

She sighs and shrugs. “I was vague, just told them I could no longer fulfill the parameters of the agreement. They were generous enough, but there’s still a hefty payout.” 

I wish I could encourage her, tell her she could have made it work, but she’s almost five months pregnant with twins and, phenomenal acting skills aside, there’s no way she could pass for the single, nomadic hippie she signed on to play.

“Hey, it’s okay.” She’s by my side before I can formulate a helpful response, smoothing the palm of her hand across my cheek. “Don’t think for a second that isn’t the most important thing in my life, that this isn’t what I want most. More opportunities will arise soon enough and I’m actually looking forward to some time off to incubate your children.”

Her smile warms something deep inside of me that I didn’t realize had gone cold. “Fair enough,” I echo in return, burying my fingers in her hair and drawing her lips up to meet mine because I simply can’t resist anymore. 

After a thorough exploration of her mouth, she detaches herself from me mid-thought. “But we should probably break the news to the world soon…”

She’s right, of course, but the vulnerability terrifies me. For every well wish, there will be a put-down, for every salutation, scrutiny. We’ve been through this all before and she’s too precious to be wounded for the sake of public interest in the process.

The words are out of my mouth before I’ve even thought about the magnitude of them, before I’ve even considered the risk of repeating history. 

“Then we’ll tell the world, but so help me, I want to put a ring on your finger first so they get the story straight.”

It’s a pathetic proposal, entirely on brand with the first one. I’m not down on one knee. There’s no eloquent speech planned. Hell, I don’t even have a ring to offer her.

“Marry me,” she whispers, and it’s half question, half clarification. 

“Yes…” We collectively release our devotion in the same breath. And it’s enough to shock my heart back into rhythm.

~*~

I spare no expense purchasing the ring of her dreams and having it overnighted to Atlanta, making a ceremony out of slipping it onto her finger over our last dinner in the apartment as my daughter screams about her mac and cheese. It isn’t the slightest bit romantic, but she laughs until she cries and neither of us complain. It doesn’t take much to beat the first time around.

We brainstorm ideas for sharing our secret that night as I massage her swollen feet in the candlelight of our bedroom. I suggest releasing a simple statement to the press and leaving it at that, but the sly smile on her face tells me that her flair for the dramatic won’t stand for such a mundane revelation.

“Let’s really give them something to talk about…” Her voice trails off as she climbs up my body, admiring the rock on her hand absentmindedly before sinking onto my lap.

The photo that hits the front page of TMZ several days later sends Hollywood (and the rest of the world) reeling. We’re stepping out of LAX onto the main thoroughfare hand-in-hand—her bump and her diamond equally on display with my daughter slung over her hip. It’s the kiss, though, that sets off the camera shutters of the throng of paparazzi we tipped off.

We hole ourselves up in the new house and laugh about it for a week.

Her… 

Sometimes I love him so much that it scares me a little bit. Like on the morning of the gender reveal party when I waltz into the kitchen of our new home sporting my new set of maternity lingerie and he’s elbow deep in a pile of sudsy dishes, stopping only long enough to ogle me from head to toe.

“What?” I grin innocently, walking up behind him and pressing my chest against the planes of his bare back, wiggling my hands into the front pockets of his jeans. 

He’s always loved my body, but the curves I’ve begun to develop are a far cry from the lanky teenager he first fell in love with, and I use the shock factor to my full advantage.

“You know exactly what…” He carries on about his business like he isn’t affected, but I can feel his pulse pummel beneath my fingertips and I call his bluff, placing an open-mouthed kiss just below his shoulder blade. 

He turns around immediately, bedroom eyes on full display. “As much as you know I’d like to rail you on this counter right now, we have a whole host of family and friends who will be here in t-minus 30 minutes, and somehow I don’t believe this is what you had in mind to wear to the party.”

I give him a gentle shove and full-on pout, withdrawing myself from his arms and sauntering up the stairs to our bedroom with a hidden smirk.

~*~

He finds me while everyone is milling about the backyard, sipping punch and catching up with one another. I smile when I catch a glimpse of our moms laughing brazenly by the pool, thinking to myself about how this reconciliation has healed so many more broken relationships than just ours.

“What are you thinking about?” He whispers against the column of my neck, pulling me back against the plane of his chest.

“I’m just overwhelmed with it all,” I smile. “I never could’ve written a happy ending this perfect. What about you?”

“Nothing so pure…” His voice trails off as he breathes against the shell of my ear, sending my pulse through the roof. “If you want my honest answer, I’ve been thinking about the lace pattern on that lingerie set for the past hour and I can’t seem to shake it.”

“Hmmmm…” I giggle, feeling the evidence of exactly what he can’t seem to shake against my backside. “That sounds like quite the problem.”

Against my better judgment, I allow him to pull me back into the house and press me up against the wall of the pantry, sliding his tongue into my mouth roughly as he fumbles with the hem of my dress. 

“We’re crazy, you know that, right?” I manage to observe as he palms my sensitive breasts, turning my question into a stifled groan.

We make out against the wall for what feels like hours, but we’re both too worked up to care. I’m seconds from unbuttoning his pants when a knock at the door sends us both scrambling to compose ourselves.

“Listen,” our suave best friend and former co-star chuckles from the other side of the door, “No one is under the impression that you two aren’t thoroughly enjoying yourselves, and I hate to spoil the fun, but we came here for the babies…” 

Several awkward moments later, blue confetti is raining down on us, not once, but twice, and my heart swells to three times its capacity as I watch him dance around the room, celebrating with the rest of the characters that make up our real life melodrama. It’s hard to imagine how something so perfect is even possible.


	12. Chapter 12

Him…

Boys, sons, two little rascals that are half her and half me. I smile to myself every time I think about it.

The media has a field day with every twist and turn of our journey. Headlines and gossip columns are consistently abuzz with the latest news. I can’t help but notice how one-dimensional and paper thin we are to them. Hollow. 

They paint me as a womanizer, of course, playing up my sudden divorce as seedy at best and scandalous at worst. Then again, that’s all I’ve really ever been in their narrative—easy on the eyes, hard on the heart. 

They don’t know that I read Tolstoy and I try to put more good in the world than I take out of it. I’m far more serious than they give me credit for. 

I ponder these things from our couch in the study, looking out over the sunset on the Pacific coast. I’m so lost in thought that I hardly hear her slip in, sinking down beside me and lying down so that my lap is her pillow. 

I run my fingers through her hair absentmindedly and I realize they get her wrong too. I’ve read all the headlines they’ve ever printed. In their narrative, she’s silly, wild, and too carefree for her own good. 

But they don’t know how tender she can be. How earth-shatteringly strong. They aren’t mesmerized by her grace in the same way I am, and they spend hours upon hours trying to extort it. 

“Hey,” I smile down at her. Her eyes hold the power to snap me out of my depressing spiral. “Do you ever regret the fame?” 

“No,” she shrugs casually, twisting so that she’s sitting up on my lap, propped against the arm of the sofa, the skin on her lower belly peaking out beneath her too-small shirt that she refuses to give up on wearing until after the babies arrive. “I get tired of it sometimes, but I never regret it.” 

“You never think about how toxic it is that this whole other image of you exists and a bunch of grumpy old men make money on it and the rest of the world has no choice but to think that’s who you really are?”

She chuckles briefly, but I can sense the sarcasm in it. She knows exactly what it’s like—exactly how confusing and exhausting and degrading it can be.

“Before you get completely bent on destroying the system, don’t forget that it’s what brought us together…” She pulls me down to her by the collar of my shirt and lays a feather light kiss against the corner of my lip. “And I honestly kind of like being one of the few people in the world who knows the real you.”

Her…

When I reach the stage of the pregnancy where it’s uncomfortable to do just about anything else, I realize it’s about time to start planning a wedding. 

“How about Hawaii?” I ask one evening when I’m cozied up on the sofa with a bowl of ice cream balancing on my tummy. “I feel like that could be really beautiful.” 

“Hmmmm….” He looks up from where he sits with my feet in his lap, painting my toenails. I feel the strong urge to give him a kiss, but that would require moving and I keep that to a minimum these days. “Hawaii could be nice, but I thought you wanted to keep it small. I feel like everyone will find an excuse to come if we have it there.” 

“You’re right. Back to the drawing board.” I sigh and close my eyes as he caps the nail polish and returns his attention to massaging my swollen feet. I’d marry this man in a cardboard box, I think to myself as his talented fingers work their magic. “I really don’t care where we have it anyway. It’s just a formality. I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

“Is that so?” I sneak a peak at him and he’s sending me his signature smirk. I can visibly see the wheels in his brain turning over sarcastic responses, but he ultimately lands on a much sweeter remark. “Formality or not, you deserve the wedding of your dreams and I’m going to make that happen.” 

We settle on Bulgaria in September, a little place outside the town where I was born that holds an air of both nostalgia and mystery. It’s a place that is sure to wrap us up in anonymity and normalcy, a place where we will catch a break from the madness that is our daily lives.

“It’s perfect,” he says to me a few days later once the dates are reserved, sneaking up behind me to draw me into his embrace. “Now that we’ve settled that… on to more important matters.” 

It’s then that I take note of the tiny slips of paper he clasps at my waistline. “What’s this?” I ask, grabbing them and turning in his arms.

“A surprise.” He shrugs, snatching the papers back from me before I get a chance to look at them. Only when I send him a concerned look does he recant. 

“I’ve been thinking with all of the baby showers and wedding planning going on about how different our lives are going to be in a few short months. And while I’m honestly ecstatic for this journey with you, part of me doesn’t want to rush away the now.”

My brows furrow, still confused about his point. “We’ll hardly have a normal honeymoon with three toddlers running around, so I decided to change things up a bit. I pulled some strings and everything fell into place. We’re going on a babymoon… And we leave tomorrow.”


	13. Chapter 13

Him…

Over the course of a career that has spanned over twenty years, I’ve only taken a handful of vacations. Not because I don’t enjoy relaxation and time away but because I’m terrible at making it a priority, and when your job has you traversing the globe for business, some of adventure loses its appeal. 

She is my exact opposite in that regard. Traveling is her lifeblood and I decide to give her one last taste of its spontaneity before our extra passengers arrive. 

When we step off of the plane and the warm South Pacific sun hits her face for the first time, I know I made the right decision. She stops in her tracks, turning her face upward toward the sky, letting her eyes drift closed, and reveling in the sensation. “A week in paradise with the love of my life…” she wonders aloud, subconsciously reaching out for my hand. 

I don’t let it go until we’ve checked into our overwater bungalow. The concierge drops off our bags as we admire the view through the glass bottom floor and the minute the door latches behind him, she’s jumping me… well, she’s attempting to jump me as much as the seven months of her pregnancy will allow. 

When she realizes it’s not going to work that way, she pulls me out toward the balcony. “You know, I’ve never done it in the ocean before.”

“Yes, you have.” I laugh out loud, not missing a beat as fond memories fill my mind from our trip to Paris, momentarily distracted by thoughts of that particular rendezvous. 

She huffs in exasperation before a blush of realization flushes her already rosy cheeks. “Fine… I’ve never done it in this ocean before.” That’s my girl. 

The pregnancy hormones have all but catapulted my fiancé’s already ambitious sex drive through the roof. I can’t help but chuckle as I pull her back toward me so that her back is flush with my chest, my lips grazing the column of her neck. 

“That’s why we’re here.” I take my time and breathe her in, noting how her pulse is already racing against my bottom lip. I don’t have the same hormonal excuses as she does, but my body responds to her in the same way it always does, and she lets out a subtle gasp when she notices.

Momentarily ignoring my own desire, I reach around her frame to cup my hands beneath her belly, resting my head on her shoulder as we both gaze down at the miracles we have created. As gentle as possible, I lift upward, taking their full weight into the palms of my hands. Her head falls back against my shoulder in relief, and I press soft, appreciative kisses against her jawline as I realize the true magnitude of her commitment to our family. 

“I love you,” I breathe out, because everything else I think of is too cheap. 

“I love you, too,” she echoes, reaching back to toy with the hairs at the nape of my neck. “Now let’s go for a swim, what do you say?”

~*~

Our trip to Bora Bora affirms everything I already knew to be true. I am madly in love with the woman who carries my children and the flame in her eyes tells me she only burns for me too. 

We spend hours (days, even) proving our love to one another and its a kind of therapy I didn’t realize I was signing up for. When my first wife announced her pregnancy to me, she tossed me her positive test and smirked, her nonchalance challenging the manner in which my heart began sputtering out of rhythm. She was resolved to be completely unbothered by it all, indifferent to the life she was growing inside her womb. And that was the first red flag.

I felt drawn to her in every sense of the word and she held me at arms length for the duration of her gestation, going so far as to move out of our room and never return. “It’s gross,” she’d say whenever I asked her how she was feeling, and she made me feel ashamed for being curious about the life growing inside of her.

Perhaps that’s why my fascination is unfettered this time around, my devotion complete. “Hurry! They’re dancing!” She squeals one evening from the shower as she washes off the salt water and sunscreen from our day’s adventures.

I throw open the door as quick as I can, rushing to her side and letting the water soak through my sweatpants as I place my hand over hers to feel the miracle of new life dancing in her womb. It’s enough to bring tears to my eyes, and I bow my head against her naval to take it all in. She buries her fingers in my wet locks and I know without looking exactly how a sweet smile is playing at the corner of her lips. I kiss the outline of a foot as it juts out against her skin and it’s only then that I dare to look her in the eye. 

Her…

Paris was the first time I dared let myself think of forever. Until that point, our relationship had been lackadaisical, perfection without the pretense. I knew that he was madly in love with me and it wasn’t difficult to reciprocate those feelings, but we were still one-dimensional together, marching ahead without a concept of time and space.

The trip was my idea, planned in a frenzy without so much as a second thought about where it would lead. I arranged the reservations and he invited our moms to come along and the rest is history. As one of our first adventures after going public with our relationship, I naturally freaked out on the plane realizing that there would inevitably be paparazzi and sleazy tabloids and deranged super fans, and we would probably get all of three seconds to ourselves.

“And…” His voice was fraught with concern even as his words echoed indifference as he laced our fingers together beneath the armrest. “They’re going to talk. They always talk. It doesn’t matter.” I nodded against his shoulder and that was the end of it. 

Until we emerged from our hotel a few hours later after sleeping off the jet lag, only to be swarmed by people wielding cameras and sharpies and fangirl screams. He booked us a charter to a private island the next morning and sent our moms on a souvenir run in the shopping district. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

The captain ferries us out to a tiny stretch of land a few miles off the coast and leaves us about our business for the day with nothing but a picnic basket and a few beach towels.

The sentiment alone is enough to send me careening into his arms, giggling as he tumbles backward into the sand. “Easy there, babe. We have all day.” 

I slap at his arm playfully, still incensed in those days by his alluding to my more basal desires. Removing myself from his body, I stand to stretch out a towel, peeling off my coverup to lie down and catch some rays. 

Just as I move to sit down, he sweeps me off my feet, tossing me over his shoulder and making a beeline for the waves. “Oh no you don’t…” He laughs as he dumps me in the water, flailing and screaming and secretly reveling in the knowledge that there is no one within earshot to come to my rescue. 

I enact my revenge as he is momentarily distracted removing his t-shirt, dead legging him and sending him reeling into the surf beside me. 

Our playful banter lasts just long enough to get us equally hot and bothered beyond recognition, and, from that point forward, it’s all skin and teeth, salt and sighs, as we have our wicked way with one another.

Lying on that beach against him filled with a year’s supply of vitamin D and oxytocin, my brain short-circuits. There in the sand, watching the evening sky erupt in a wash of vibrant colors, the paper-thin sketch of our relationship starts to transform into a dynamic sculpture. Height. Length. Width. Depth. Before my very eyes, as he holds me in his arms and whispers lazily about his childhood, I am overcome with it. 

And as the captain docks the boat and calls out for us to head back to reality, he pulls me to my feet, the weight of his hand in mine an anchor tethering me to him. I let him pull me along, and, even then, I know. The medium we are made of is no longer as malleable as pen and paper, we are etched in stone.


	14. Chapter 14

Him…

A month before the twins arrive, she brings up my ex-wife. We’re three hours deep in a movie marathon, cozied up in our California King. It starts out with just the two of us, but it isn’t long before my daughter moseys in and nestles herself between us only to fall asleep within minutes. 

“Have you talked to her lately?” She asks out of the blue, running her fingers tenderly through the little girl’s messy hair. At first, I’m not even sure what she’s talking about. “Her mom—have you talked to her mom about how all of this is going to go down?”

Aside from a few stale meetings with our attorneys, I haven’t spoken more than a handful of words to my ex-wife in months. It was a clean break, and I’d like to keep it that way.

As far as the proceedings go, we haven’t gotten to the part where we talk about custody, and my heart lurches in my chest just thinking about it. My daughter has been with me for the duration of our separation and I intend to make sure it stays that way. But there are two variables in that equation I have not factored in yet. Both biological mom and soon-to-be stepmom also have a say.

“We haven’t discussed it formally yet,” I reply when I realize I’ve been silent for a little bit too long. “But I’m fairly sure I know where she stands.”

“So you think she’s just going to surrender custody?” The hint of devil’s advocate in her voice makes me question her motives. 

“I do,” I respond without hesitation, and I’m certain. When we were together, she never wanted to be tethered to a family, but she wanted me, so she signed on the dotted line and threw in all her cards with the rest of the lot. She was never so bold as the woman at my side right now, the one who loves me enough to level with me.

She nods my way, a soft smile playing at her lips before she diverts her gaze back to the sleeping girl between us. I know all of this must be difficult for her, swooping in to clean up the broken pieces of another person’s shattered family. We don’t ever talk about it, but I can’t help but wonder where her heart lies, how she truly feels about the responsibility of raising another woman’s child.

It’s a bold question, but I ask it anyway because the false security of the unknown is suddenly too much to carry.

“And where do you stand?”

She meets my gaze again with a glow enhanced by the late stages of her pregnancy, slipping her hand silently in mine and settling the matter once and for all.

“As far as I’m concerned, she’s ours.”

Her…

When it’s time for the babies to arrive, I start to cry—more from panic than from pain. He finds me on the floor in the bathroom, halfway to a full blown panic attack—chest heaving, eyes clenched shut, shaking uncontrollably. For all of the love and support, I’ve been privy to in my short life, I suddenly feel utterly and completely alone.

I’ve had months to process the magnitude of this life changing milestone, and yet, the eminence feels so jarring. My only thought as I gasp for air against the cool tile floor is that I can’t do it. I give up. 

He’s at my side before I can even call out to him, scooping my into his arms and pulling me into his chest. His presence is hazy in my mind’s eye, but I cling to him all the same, knuckles white at his shirt collar as another wave of pain wracks my body. 

“We’ve got to get you to the hospital, babe.” He smooths my damp hair away from my face . “Do you think you can stand?”

“No, no, no…” The string of unsteady words dissolves into another fit of tears, confirming my suspicion that I am seconds from falling completely apart. When my frantic gaze finally finds his, I’m brave enough to admit it out laud. “I can’t do this,” I whisper, like the words will shatter in the air. 

The pain that echoes in his eyes is enough to frighten me back to some semblance of reality. “Don’t say that, you hear me?” His response is frank, his jawline set with enough resolve for both of us. “You are the strongest woman I know. You can and you will.” 

I nod cathartically in his general direction and before my fragile determination can falter, he’s pulling me to my feet, wrapping his arm around my waist and guiding me to the car.

As he weaves in and out of traffic, my only thought behind bright white streaks of pain is that I hope he is right.

~*~

The first time I lay eyes on them, I start to cry again—more from awe than from apprehension. Rhys and Rhodes, my precious baby boys, our sons.

The physical exhaustion I feel after hours of exertion pales in comparison to the burst of adrenaline I get when the nurse places them on my chest, and when we make contact, I realize that I was wrong. As long as I live, I will never give up on these slimy, wiggly, five pound miracles. I will move heaven and earth for them.

Once I’ve had my fill of staring at them and I’m sufficiently confident that they won’t disappear if I avert my gaze, I let my head fall to the side where I know I will find him. Throughout this entire process, he never left my side and I recognize the same ferocious love in his gaze as he takes it all in, as if I ever had any doubts. 

“Pretty amazing, huh?” I laugh as pure joy erupts from my soul.

“Miraculous,” he grins, leaning over place a light kiss on my forehead. Then, because the seriousness of the moment has gone on long enough, he adds, “We make beautiful babies.”

I couldn’t agree more.


End file.
